


Centering

by inkling



Series: Mike/Rayna [1]
Category: Emergency!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-09
Updated: 2009-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-04 07:44:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkling/pseuds/inkling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike seeks solace after a tragedy on shift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Centering

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks, as always, to akamarykate and to MJ, for their wonderful beta skills and encouragement. To MJ, again, for both housing and releasing "Centering" in its first incarnation. Also to Cece, for generously giving this small tale that just would not die a new home.
> 
> 2005 by inkling. Standard "they don't belong to me they just come out to play now and then" disclaimers apply. "Emergency!" and its characters c Mark VII Productions, Inc.and Universal Studios. All rights reserved. No infringement of any copyrights or trademarks is intended or should be inferred. The settings and characters are fictitious, even if a real name may be used. Any similarity to actual persons, living or deceased, or to actual events is purely coincidental and is not intended to suggest that the events described actually occurred.
> 
>  
> 
> This story begins a three-story arc that continues in my story "Holding Patterns" and concludes with "Counting by Threes."

"While rain beat upon us the thunder did moan

  And nobody smiled when we knew what was lost

  We knew well enough only time proves the cost."

 

            Big Country

 

 

 

 

 

In the end it was simple enough, even without the old woman's touch.

 

There was no discernible effect yet from the painkillers the nurse had given him half an hour ago.  But the pale light of dawn clung to the thin curtains behind his head and he'd be damned if he was going to wait around any longer.  Shivering, Mike slipped out of the bed and headed for the corner closet and the clothes Roy and Johnny had dropped off for him last night.  They were going to release him this morning anyway; what did it matter if he released himself a few hours ahead of the plan?  After all, he wasn't a critical patient, not like Mar--His mind skittered away from the image that presented itself with that half-finished thought. Thinking of escape helped, gave him a focal point beyond the nightmarish memories that had haunted him in the dark.  Relegating the various aches and pains from yesterday's fire and its aftermath to errata, simply to be ignored, he concentrated on getting his clothes out of the closet, sliding into his jeans and buttoning his shirt in spite of pain in his shoulders and ribs.  There were more buttons than buttonholes at the top when he finished his shirt, but he left things as they were.  Somehow, he got his Adidas on without falling over and banging his already aching head on the floor.

 

His shoes squeaked softly on the tiled hallway, but the noise was lost in the television blaring from Room 311.  A nurse's obnoxiously cheery voice came from 321, but the stairwell door closed behind him before she got past "I need to take your blood pressure."

 

The plastic patient I.D. encircling his wrist came off somewhere in the stairwell between the second and first floors.  He left the incriminating band in the cigarette-butt-filled garbage can conveniently located beside the door into the main floor.  Twenty feet down the hall he caught himself as he turned automatically toward the Emergency department and ducked down a side hall instead.  No sense being stupid.  No one he knew came in the front; they all used the much more familiar Emergency entrance, whether here on business or just visiting.

 

In full breakfast swing, the cafeteria's rattle and hum swelled then faded behind him.  He kept his head down, his eyes on the faintly green tips of his sneakers until the tiled hallway became flat grey carpet.  Despite the carpet and softer lighting, Mike shuddered and rubbed at the goose bumps on his arms as he wound his way through the maze of Naugahyde couches and dispirited greenery.  Arriving at the front door, he went to push it open, then stopped, confused.  His truck wouldn't be here.  How could he get away--and, even more pressing in the chill grey morning, where could he go to escape his own conscience--and the good intentions of his friends and co-workers?

 

"May I call a cab for you, young man?"

 

Mike jerked around to find one of the hospital's ubiquitous elderly volunteers smiling up at him.  The large bi-focals she wore cut her large eyes into odd segments and he gaped at her, his brain refusing to shift out of neutral long enough to form an answer.  He'd worked hard to get to this state, not thinking, not feeling.  Why stop now, just for an octogenarian version of Greta Garbo?

 

Because she'll figure out something's up, stupid, the unfrozen part of his brain kicked out, and Mike closed his mouth and sought a smile for the bug-eyed granny peering up at him.  Her purple hair was drawn up into a severe bun, highlighting the deep lines etched into her face and making her long chin even longer. 

 

"Um...yeah."  He took a deep breath, stood up straight, tried the smile.  Hopefully he grimace he came up with wouldn't frighten her away.  "Yes, please.  That would...that would be great."

 

Granny Odd-Eyes beamed, obviously pleased to have a good deed to do so early in the day.  Mike turned away as she hurried over to a small desk set discretely to one side of the waiting area.  He ignored her papery voice as she filled his request, worked instead on returning his mind to a non-working state. Arms wrapped around his chest, he leaned abruptly against the glass of the door, allowed the cold to seep in, welcomed the fog that rose within and throughout him, slowing his thoughts, pushing the memories away. 

 

"There'll be a cab outside in just a moment."

 

Hunh?  Mike rolled his head against the glass, blinked at the line of straight white dentures smiling up at him, again.  The large eyes narrowed in a frown as his disheveled appearance registered.

 

"Are you sure you're all right, young man?"

 

Her suspicious query came at the same time as movement outside the doors, and it was easy enough to choose what he would respond to.  Mike mumbled both assurances and thanks to his helper, and managed one step away.  His hand went out to push the door open, but he was stopped by an infinitesimal force.  Odd-eyed Granny held his arm in a warm, wispy grasp, batting those beautiful violet eyes his way.

 

"She'll understand, you know," was all she said.  "The good ones always do."

 

"Th-th-thanks," he stammered, pulling his arm away, acutely aware of the residual heat of her hand on his stone flesh.  He splashed through the puddles on the sidewalk and slid through the rain into the cab, only moderately wet.  The door slammed; Mike took a deep breath of the smoke-tainted interior of the cab. From the front seat droopy hound dog eyes peered back at him over the cabby's bulbous nose.

 

"Where to?" the man grated.

 

And in the end, it was simple enough.

 

 

 

~ E! ~ E! ~ E! ~ E! ~ E! ~

 

 

  " scattered on the beach like a thousand other souls

  ground down by the ocean and the tide

  too far out to reach

  and no saviour's hand to hold"

 

       ~~John Tams

 

 

 

 

 

Mike stood in the rain outside Rayna's door, trying to remember if she'd fixed her doorbell or not.  The ceramic shop that took up the first floor of the old Victorian house was dark and still at this early hour, unpainted rabbits pale gargoyles in the window shelves.  Dripping impatiently, the cabby hovered just down the narrow walkway that led to the back entrance and Rayna's apartment.  Mike had forgotten he'd given Chet the last of his cash for meals yesterday.  Movement on the stairs, and then a hand parted the dingy lace curtain hanging over the window in the door.  Everything stopped for a second as his eyes met Rayna's, wide in shocked recognition.  Mike caught his breath, his gut twisting.  What if the old woman was wrong; what if she didn't understand? 

 

But the smile Rayna rendered next radiated enough warmth to almost dispel the fear lancing through him--almost.  He waited while she worked the lock and opened the door.  Barefoot, cinching tight a red paisley robe that made her dark auburn hair look distinctly orange, Rayna pushed the door open with one hand and bent to grab for Bardolph's collar with the other.  The twin scents of incense and coffee wafted out into the pearly morning light.  Mike caught the door and she straightened, the dog a great creamy ghost beside her.

 

"Mike?"  Her smile became concern as she took in his battered appearance, the bruise covering his cheek, the cut across his nose, the fact that he wasn't wearing a jacket in the thin winter rain.  But what mattered was that she stepped back, and gestured for him to enter.

 

He looked over his shoulder at the waiting cabby, and then tried to smile his apology to Rayna.  Bardolph pushed his way out, wagging his tail and snuffling happily about Mike's feet and knees.

 

"I...Uh...Can I borrow cab fare?"

 

Cinnamon eyes blinked at him once, and then she peered out at the cab driver, one hand going up to hold the robe closed at the neckline.  Her gaze coming back to him, slim eyebrows drew together in a slight frown before she turned, calling over her shoulder as she headed up the stairs.

 

"Sure.  Keep an eye on Bardolph for me?"

 

"Yeah," he called after her, and slipping his hands into his jeans' pockets for warmth, he turned obediently to keep an eye on the huge Great Pyrenees.  It wasn't hard; Bardolph stood ten feet down the sidewalk, happily adding his own contribution to the water cascading over the soggy greenery.

 

"Here."  Rayna reappeared, thrusting her wallet at him.  Mike fumbled with it and almost dropped it on the stoop, but managed at the last minute to get his long fingers locked around the pale leather.  As she called Bardolph in, Mike stepped back out into the rain and paid the cabby.

 

She was waiting inside the door for him, holding the screen open with one arm, her other hand still clutching her robe.  Like Granny Odd-Eyes, she stared at him, and Mike could see the questions rising in her dark eyes.  But unlike the old woman, Rayna didn't ask any of those questions, just reached out and drew him in from the rain.

 

Chatting idly, she put a kettle on the stove and bustled about the small kitchen. Huddled in an ancient quilt on the equally ancient sofa in the next room, Mike appreciated the fact that Rayna didn't seem to expect a response.  Whatever purpose he'd had earlier, his energy seemed to have been consumed in just getting from the hospital to here, to this refuge.  He'd gone cold from the inside out, finally, blessedly, and the weary weight of his grief wouldn't allow his throat to work up an answer to anything. 

 

The archway between the two rooms framed Rayna, the shifting of her dilapidated robe over the lavish curves of her buttocks and breasts highlighting her movements.  The smooth, gentle arc of muscle in her bare calf caught his eye as she stood on tiptoe to reach something in an upper cabinet, and then bereavement took him as she moved away, out of his sight. 

 

She was still talking, though, and he pictured her face as her voice rambled on, smooth and soothing to his frozen soul as a babbling creek.  Rayna's large eyes, a deeper shade of her dark auburn hair and set aslant above prominent cheekbones, dominated her round face.  Her nose, thin and almost too long, ended above lips as generously curved as her abundant figure.  The first time he'd seen her, half-hidden behind the counter of the bookstore she managed, Rayna had brought to mind an ancient earth goddess, the same ones whose robust figures he'd sniggered at in his anthro class in college.

 

Rayna's voice quit altogether and, his attention released, Mike's gaze wandered over to the small table in the abbreviated corner between the bathroom door and the archway into the kitchen.  One of those same voluptuous figurines he'd mocked in his immaturity stood proudly amidst a collection of rocks, seashells, and flickering candles.  An incense holder sat in front of the statuette, the lazy spiral of smoke ascending up to dissipate before a Byzantine icon of the Queen of Heaven that decorated the wall above the shrine.  Dating her for the last three months, Mike had decided that maybe, at the ripe old age of thirty-four, he was finally learning to worship at the right altar.

 

Then a metal hinge squeaked, the cabinet door creaking in response, and he was suddenly back in yesterday's wreckage, clutching desperately at his friend’s hands as the aged hotel collapsed around them.  Marco's hands slipped from his even as he tightened his grip, grimly willing the firefighter's weight to come forward, not go back; up, not down into the building that had already eaten the lives of a fellow firefighter and two of its occupants--

 

"Mike?"

 

He blinked away the shadows and focused on Rayna, kneeling before him, a mug of fragrant coffee steaming between them.  Her presence created eddies in the fog in which he sought to hide; he dropped his gaze, unable to accept the infinity of compassion in her eyes.

 

Instead, one hand emerged from the quilt, reaching for the coffee.

 

"Thanks," he croaked, and willed himself back into stone. 

 

Freed from its burden, Rayna's hand came up to caress his face, lightly brushing over the bruising there.  Mike shivered at the cool warmth of her touch.  He wanted to pull away, retain his distance from reality, any sort of reality, but as she continued stroking his face, his jaw, and then reached up to gently push the hair away from his temple, he couldn't resist.  He leaned into her touch, and when Rayna's hand pressed softly against his unmarked cheek, he moaned, shuddering.

 

She caught the mug before he dropped it, and Mike was bereft of her touch as she set it away, somewhere.  Hanging his head, he curled into himself, unable to stop the shaking that consumed him.  Her fingers returned, caressed his head, the only part of him visible outside the quilt, threading their way through his hair, and Mike knew, suddenly, why he'd come here, why his foggy brain and broken heart had brought him to this, of all refuges.

 

Rayna's arms came around him then, pulling his head down onto her chest as she held him tightly, and Mike opened his eyes to find himself staring down her robe at her cleavage.  After a long moment, he forced himself to look away, out over her shoulder, but the heat that rose in his face was a longed-for relief to the chill that consumed his soul, and he welcomed his body's response to her nearness even as he despised himself for it.

 

Releasing him as his shivering eased, Rayna sat back on her heels, but the burning weight of her hand on his knee was a neon flare, the heat of her touch tearing at the shroud he'd pulled about himself in the hours since he was carried out of the wreckage, Marco still entombed behind him.  Mike couldn't prevent the new shudders that shook him; whether from the memories or his sudden need, he couldn't tell.

 

"Mike, I have to make a phone call.  I'll be right back.  Okay?"  She was playing with his hair again, the warmth of the hand remaining on his knee still shooting a straight line to his groin.  He managed to meet her eyes and nod, and then  regretted it immediately when she stood, taking both her hands and her burning  light away from him.

 

His own hand reached blindly after her.  As soon as he saw it, Mike jerked it back and huddled deeper into the quilt, willing away the heat she'd generated within him in just those brief moments.  He drew the cold weight he'd brought with him back, allowed it to settle over him, come between him and soft light of Rayna and her world.  The rising sun broke through the clouds, shining momentarily through leaded glass windows and raindrops, setting the room awash in spinning, sparkling light and rainbows.  Mike closed his eyes against the dazzling display, and heard Rayna's voice from the other side of the room.  She was calling in, telling someone she wouldn't be at work today.  His eyes shot open; the rainbows were gone, the dawn lost in the raindrops pattering once again on the windows.

 

"Rayna, you don't--" he started to say, or thought he did, but then she was kneeling in front of him again, pulling at the quilt he huddled in.  Mike couldn’t help himself this time.  His hands went out, surrounding her face, then his fingers slid back into her hair.  He leaned out of the quilt and pulled her to him for a hard, hungry kiss.

 

His body, so cold, so leaden, lit up at the touch of her lips on his, and he was  hardly aware that she leaned into him, her hands coming up to his face, to his  shoulder.  Determined to draw as much of the fire from her as he could, he ignored her movements for a moment, until they suddenly translated in his misfiring brain: She was pushing him away.

 

"Sorry," he mumbled, breaking the kiss and releasing her.  He sat back against the couch, refusing to meet her gaze even when she tried to turn his face toward hers.  Oh, god, what was he doing? 

 

"Rayna..." he worked his throat, trying to find the apology.  But his body was fiercely unapologetic, and he felt his face flaming.  Pulling the quilt up over his shoulders again, Mike jerked his chin away from Rayna's hand.

 

Her fingers stopped him, refusing to accept his retreat.  She pulled his head around, and Mike found himself staring into her eyes, lit up with an emotion he assumed was anger.

 

"Never, ever apologize for needing me, Michael Stoker," she said, staring down any further apology before he could offer it.

 

Caught in the fierceness of her gaze, Mike nodded numbly.  His body giving in to the cold and fog again, he didn't object when Rayna stood, pulling him to his feet as well.  He did need to leave.

 

"Mike..." she started to say, then, looking at his face, shook her head and smiled.  Her kiss landed softly on his lips, and she turned and walked away.  She didn't let go of his hand, though, and Mike stumbled after her light and warmth.  He stopped dead however, when he saw where she was leading him.  His inertia drew her around, and this time she was the one who pulled him to her, taking him in a hungry kiss that was the twin of the one they'd shared moments ago. Mike groaned again, the quilt falling away as his arms came out to encircle her, his body rising to the warmth of Rayna, warmth that pressed against him for a long moment before she stepped back, and drew him in from the cold, grey  world, through the doorway into her bedroom.

 

 

 

~ E! ~ E! ~ E! ~ E! ~ E! ~

 

 

 

  "The dark that matters is the last one."

 

  ~~Richard Hugo

 

 

 

 

 

Mike woke reluctantly, preferring to linger in the warmth and darkness that cloaked him.  Eyes closed, he floated with the surrounding sensations, letting them cocoon him against full wakefulness:  the soft comfort of a quilt against his  bare skin, the homey fragrance of baking bread, rain gently thrumming on the roof.  There wasn't any need to think, to remember...

 

There was, however, another need.  Mike ignored it as long as he could, but eventually he couldn't deny his bladder any longer.  He rolled over, and, along with the pain, memory washed over him.  Only now, instead of just the desperate fight to keep Marco from slipping away, there was a new memory: his body entwined with Rayna's here, in this room.  He remembered it all, vividly, from the moment her robe slid off her shoulders and floated to the floor behind her, to the point where she gave up trying to make their encounter anything beyond trying to fill his desperate need to connect with her--with the warmth and life that burned within her.  She'd wrapped herself around him even as she opened herself and simply let him take what he needed.

 

Afterward he'd collapsed on top of her, and the tears he couldn't stop had begun.  Ruddy gold against his own ghostly skin, Rayna had completely embraced him; her arms and legs holding him together as, once again, he turned inside out within her embrace.  After that things got a bit fuzzy.  The dual climax of his body and his grief had left him exhausted, and Mike had only a vague recollection of Rayna easing out from under him, gently pushing aside his hands as they groped for her, urging him to crawl under the quilt on her bed.  She'd snuggled in with him again under the covers, and Mike had surrendered to the skin on skin warmth of her, falling away into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

Now he freed a hand from under the covers and rubbed it across his face, staring up into the dark blue gauze draped like fishing nets across Rayna's bedroom ceiling.  Damn.  It wasn't like he hadn't been thinking about sleeping with Rayna; from the way things had been going it had been on both their minds.  It just would have been nice if their first time together was memorable for something other than his being half out of his mind with grief.  Damn, and damn again.

 

Mike threw the covers aside and sat up, swinging his feet out onto the floor.  That accomplished, he braced his hands against the mattress and let his head hang, waiting for the dull throbbing that started in the roots of his hair and spread down  into his neck to subside.  It did, but only to give place to other aches and pains. The medicine they'd given him this morning at the hospital had definitely worn off.  He chose to focus on the pain, willing the memories to the rear for the time being.

 

The small digital clock on the round table beside the bed read two-thirty--p.m. he'd guess, from the grey light filtering through the curtained bay window behind him.  A votive candle of some dark color flickered in front of it, reflecting sparks in the small brass lamp half-hidden behind the clock.  Beside the clock sat a glass of water, and a bottle of aspirin with three tablets already laid out.  Mike didn’t need a second invitation, chasing the pills down with the entire glass of water. 

 

That done, he flopped back onto the bed for a moment, wishing the pills would take effect immediately, like the shot they'd given him at the hospital last night.  Maybe he could put off going to the bathroom until they did.  He shifted, looking for a spot that didn't aggravate his aches and pains.  The sensation of soft cotton across his bare skin brought to mind another need, and Mike lifted his head to look around the room, finally spotting his clothes draped neatly across the turquoise armchair in the bay window.

 

Awash in the miasma of memories he didn't want to deal with, he lay back and closed his eyes, pulling the quilt across his knees and waiting for the aspirin to take effect.  A ringing phone jerked him back to awareness.  The room was appreciably darker, but the smell of bread and sound of rain remained.  The glowing red numerals beside the bed now read 3:48.  Footsteps rushed outside the bedroom door, and Rayna's breathless "Hello?" came a second later.

 




Mike didn't pay much attention to the conversation that followed.  The pain in his head was muted to a dull thump; the other aches and pains were noticeable--all except for one.  He really needed to go to the bathroom now.  Not to mention the fact that he should call the hospital and find out how Marco was doing--if he was still doing, at all.   He swallowed hard against the lump that thought brought to his throat, remembering now why he'd worked so hard last night and this morning to numb himself, to deaden his thoughts and himself to everything around him. Rayna's voice cut through the whirling grief.




 

"Captain Stanley?" 

 

Cap?  How had he gotten this number?  Cap had met Rayna, once, back in December, at the movie theatre, he and his wife leaving as Mike and Rayna had been arriving.  It had been a brief encounter, Mike stammering Rayna's name; Cap introducing his wife, Andrea.  _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ had been the show that night, and for the next few shifts Mike and Cap had kept each other in stitches--and thoroughly annoyed their shiftmates--with obscure in-jokes.  But other than that freak run-in, Mike had kept Rayna to himself, preferring the teasing of his co-workers about his "mythical dream girl" to gifting the entire department's rumor mill with his latest relationship for grist.

 

"Yes, I remember."  There was a brief pause, then Rayna spoke, her voice rising. "He's here....about six-thirty this morning."  Floorboards creaked outside his door as she shifted position, and when she spoke next her voice was frosty.  "He didn't say anything, and I had no idea that anyone would be looking for--” She broke off again, and Mike sat up, listening.  The shadows of her feet cut off the line of light beneath the closed door. Damn.  He'd intended to call in, let everyone know where he was but later--when he was ready, not before.  Evidently they hadn't waited for him.  How far did he have to go to get away from anything and anyone that had a connection to yesterday's disaster?

 

"I see.  That explains...Of course I can understand, but he didn't say anything to me.  I didn't know what had happened...I'm sorry you've worried, Captain, but he is here and...no, he's been asleep almost since he got here."

 

Almost?  Mike felt the heat rising in his face.  Rayna brushed over a lot with that airy "almost."

 

"I doubt he'll want to...Yes, I'll see if he's awake.  If he is, I'll ask him.  Can you hang on for a moment?"  A pause, and then a soft thunk.  She must have set the phone down.  The door knob rattled, and Mike winced against the light as she cracked the door open.  Rayna stepped into the room, pushing the door shut behind her.  Denim swished as she walked over to the bedside table, and Mike turned his face away just before she switched on the small brass lamp.  Rayna didn't say anything, just sat on the bed beside him and waited.  When he finally braved the light to look, she smiled, her sweater straining over her breasts as she reached up to brush her fingers through his hair.  Her own hair was falling out of a haphazard bun.

 

"Hey there," she said, smiling softly.  Mike's hand automatically went up to capture hers, and he held it as he scanned her face.  Her gaze was open, with no sense of hidden recriminations, no doubts, no anger, nothing beyond compassion and that small smile lingering for him.  Maybe...maybe things were okay between them.

 

"Did you hear the phone?" she asked.

 

"Yeah," he said, shivering.  He stared down at the quilt across his knees as his stomach knotted.  Rayna's other hand came up to brush his unbruised cheek; her smile was rueful.

 

"They've been looking for you all day.  Someone finally thought of me, and they went by the store to find out if I'd seen you.  When I wasn't there, they convinced Marjorie to call me here at home."

 

"They're persistent so and so's," Mike grumbled, looking away from her, swallowing, trying to ease the knot back down into his stomach.  Maybe if he pushed hard enough it would go down and join the knot in his bladder.  The clock had changed, now reading four-fifty-four.  He took a close look at the small candle, guttering on its saucer.  In the soft light of the lamp, the candle was obviously black.

 

"They care, and you know you'd have done the same thing in their shoes," Rayna chided gently, tightening her fingers on his hand.  Her gaze was sober when he looked up at her, and he could see the questions brimming in her dark eyes.  "Some doctor wants you back at the hospital--"

 

"No."

 

Rayna nodded.

 

"I didn't think so.  But Captain Stanley does want to speak to you."  She hesitated; he knew she was watching him, assessing, trying to judge what to do for him.  He wanted to pull his hand away from hers, wipe away the sweat beading there, but he didn't want to give up the contact with her.  Rayna rested her hand on his cheek, and he leaned into the caress.  "If you don't want to, I'll tell him you're still asleep."

 

Coward! his conscience accused when Mike almost took her up on the offer. After a long moment's silence, he shook his head. 

 

"No, I'd better talk to him.  But I've got to get to the bathroom first."

 

Rayna's smile grew to a grin at that, and she leaned forward to kiss him.  The intimacy they'd shared lingered in the softness of her lips against his, and he brought a hand up to keep her close when she would have pulled away.  Her quiet laugh gusted over his mouth, and then she leaned into him, her hands coming up behind his shoulders as they kissed again.  Separating, she leaned her forehead against his, and touched the end of his nose with one finger.

 

"I'll go keep them busy while you make a break for it."

 

She left then, pulling the door to behind her.  Mike ignored her conversation with Cap as he slid out of bed.  The bathroom had a door that opened into Rayna's bedroom, so he didn't have to get dressed before he attended to his rather urgent business there.  That taken care of, he got into underwear and jeans.  He'd left Rayna to fend off the wolves long enough; time to get out there and face the music.

 

"...It's not a problem; I can drive over and pick it up for him later.  No, that's fine Captain?  Here's Mike." 

 

Mike glumly accepted the phone she handed him.  One hand went into his pocket, and he leaned against the door frame, welcoming the cold press of wood against both skin and bruises.  Rayna brushed a quick kiss across his cheek before heading into the kitchen.  Staring after her swaying hips, Mike took a deep breath and lifted the receiver.

 

"Hey, Cap."

 

A sigh twin to his own came across the line, and Rayna disappeared down the stairwell toward the front door. 

 

"Michael, you have no idea how relieved I am to hear your voice.  We've had half the department out looking for you today." 

 

Mike winced.  Ouch.  He hadn't realized they'd take his disappearance so seriously.  If he was honest, he'd have to admit he hadn't thought anyone would be that concerned about his whereabouts.

 

"I'm sorry, Cap," he finally said.  "I guess...I wasn't thinking too straight.  I just..."  He shifted, closing his eyes as he leaned hard against the molding around the door, willing his body to forget Rayna's and allow him to focus on the conversation with his Captain.  There had to be something he could say that would appease Cap and protect himself at the same time.  "I was going to call in." 

 

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and he had the distinct feeling that his Captain had heard far more than he had ever meant to say. 

 

"Well, the important thing is that you're safe," was all Cap said, though.  "How are you feeling?"

 

The aches and pains were keeping a respectful distance, not as much to hide there.

 

"I've been better, but I'm okay."

 

There was a disbelieving snort in his ear, and Mike nearly smiled.

 

"Well, you're in nine kinds of trouble at Rampart.  Doc Brackett was pretty livid that you left this morning without his say-so.  He wants us to drag you back for another night.  Says that concussion must have been worse than he thought for you to pull a crack-brained stunt like this."

 

"I don't know what his problem is."  Mike knew he sounded petulant, there just didn't seem to be much he could do about it.  "He was going to release me this morning anyway."

 

"Yeah, pal, I know.  But you know how these doctors are when things don't go their way.  Almost as grouchy as your Captain when one of his crew goes AWOL.  I swear, Mike, I lost ten years off my life when I showed up at the hospital and they told me you were missing.  And then we couldn't locate you, and even when we thought of Rayna, no one knew her last name or where she lived."  There was another long sigh.  "Like I said, I'm just--we're just glad you're okay, Michael. You scared us."

 

Mike closed his eyes and hunched his shoulders against the guilt.  Bardolph padded into the room, smelling of wet fur and rain.  With a gusty sigh he dropped down on the floor by Mike's feet.  The great tail thumped twice on the carpet before the dog rested his head on companionably on Mike's left instep, and closed his eyes.  Mike wanted nothing more than to flop down beside the dog and go back to sleep as well.  But he had other things to deal with first.  Rayna appeared beside him, raindrops spotting her sweater.  She brushed a hand over his bicep as she disappeared into her bedroom, and again, Mike had to force his attention back to the man on the other end of the phone line.

 

"Cap, I'm sorry, I just needed to..."  He couldn't say it, couldn't tell this man who'd spent all day looking for him that the only thing on Mike's mind this morning had been getting as far away from his friends at the station as possible.  Once again, Cap seemed to hear more than he was saying.

 

"I know, Mike, believe me, I know."  The heavy emphasis Stanley placed on those words hung in the air between them for a minute.  Mike swallowed, uncertain of how to reply.  Cap spoke before he got it figured out.  "You're just lucky Chet recognized her from my description.  Otherwise we'd be calling in Vince and his crew."

 

Chet?  All Chet would be able to recognize was Rayna's bustline.  It had been a hot, hazy afternoon last September, out doing inspections, and Mike had been hard pressed to pull his crewmate's attention away from her décolletage long enough for them to finish their assigned task. "Statuesque" had been the kindest of the adjectives Chet had come up with for her, and he'd spent the rest of that shift fantasizing about the cup size on her bra.  Mike had returned just as she was closing up the store two days later, as much to apologize for Chet's behavior as he had to claim the copy of "The Myth of the Eternal Return" he'd had her set aside for him.  Rayna had laughed and thanked him, graciously accepting an then brushing his apology aside.  Chet was obviously a young soul, she'd said; as such she didn't expect anything better from him. 

 

Mike had still been trying to figure that comment out when she'd asked him to go with her for coffee.  The cup of coffee he'd felt obligated to accept had led to a wide-ranging discussion that went from favorite books and bands to politics to classic cars to history and Johnny Carson's latest monologue.  When they'd said goodbye in the Denny's parking lot shortly after midnight, there'd been no doubt in Mike's mind that he would be seeing her again--Chet's observations about her cup size aside.

 

Belatedly, Mike realized that this time Cap was waiting for an answer, wanting to know why Mike had fled his friends for this woman's company.

 

"I'm sorry, Cap, I--"

 

"Forget it, Stoker.  You're all right and that's all that matters."

 

All right?  That really depended on what definition Cap wanted to give the word.   And there was still the other matter...Closing his eyes, Mike forced the query out.  And there was still the other matter...Closing his eyes, Mike forced the query out.




 

"Cap?  Marco, is he--how's Marco?"

 

The line was silent long enough for Mike's insides to freeze again.

 

"There's no change.  He's still unconscious, still critical.  They think...they might have to take his leg."

 

"Shit!"  With a jingle of tags, Bardolph roused, giving Mike a reproachful look before dropping his head to the floor again.  The noises of Rayna moving around in her bedroom paused for a moment, then resumed as Cap spoke. 

 

"Yeah, that pretty well sums it up.  I guess we'll find out for sure tomorrow.  Everyone will be here, at the hospital.  You...ah, you gonna make it?"

 

Make it to Rampart to sit vigil with everyone else while Marco's livelihood was cut away?  Not likely, not when it was all his fault in the first place.

 

"Yeah," he said anyway, pushing away the renewed accusations of dishonesty from his conscience.

 

Stanley drew a deep breath. 

 

"Mike, you know if you hadn't held onto him, he'd be dead, not just lying in the hospital.  Whatever happens, he's still better off than he would have been if you hadn't pulled him up.  You gotta believe that."  Cap's voice was quiet, but insistent, repeating the same lines he'd spouted at the hospital last night.

 

Mike hunched his shoulders and opened his mouth, but no answer came out.  Cap waited a second and then went on, as if he didn't expect any reply.

 

"Look, pal, here's Roy.  If you're not going to come in, I want you to at least talk to him. Tell him how you're really doing."  Underneath the concern was the command; Cap expected honesty from him, demanded it.

 

"Okay," Mike managed, then waited through the shuffling noises on the phone, staring across Rayna's living room, at her daughter Trini's senior portrait, at the curtained windows, the overflowing bookshelves.  He tried to read the titles on the spines of the books, anything to hold at bay the memories of yesterday:  the floor collapsing out from underneath Marco as Mike lunged across the room, reaching desperately for his friend; his frantic efforts to pull the other man from the debris, debris that insisted on dragging them both further down, into the gaping maw devouring the half-burned hotel from the inside out.  Mike had somehow found a way to stop his own slide, braced himself and tried to pull the other man to safety as the rooms collapsed around them.  But Marco had screamed, begging Mike to let him go, Mike's efforts to save him nearly tearing his leg off--

 

"Mike?"

 

Caught in the memory, it was a second before he could answer Roy.

 

"Yeah."

 

"It's good to hear your voice, Mike.  How do you feel?  Any headaches, nausea, double vision?"

 

Mike swallowed, shaking the memory from him.  Movement caught his eye; Rayna came out of her bedroom, and stood at the table in the corner.  She looked up, smiling as her gaze met his, then returned to her task, rearranging her small shrine to make room for something she held in one hand.  The candle she finally placed in front of the statue was deep green.  Mike watched as she lit it, wondering what it signified as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

 

"Mike?"

 

Roy... oh yeah.  Mike tore his gaze away from Rayna, still standing before the shrine, her eyes closed and her hands out.

 

"Um, I've got a headache, and I'm pretty sore, but other than that, nothing.  I'm fine." 

 

Roy let out a breath as Rayna took another deep one.

 

"Mike, up and walking around does not automatically translate to 'fine'.  You took some heavy hits yesterday, and even if they're not life-threatening that doesn't  mean a concussion or that bruising on your back aren't serious."  He paused, suddenly, as if realizing what he'd said.  Mike clenched his fist and closed his eyes.  As if what he'd suffered equated to what happened to Marco. 

 

"Mike, I...I'm sorry.   Look, your truck is still at the station; you'll need a ride home.  Why don't I swing by and pick you up?  We can stop by Rampart on the way back. Easy on everyone."




 

Easy on Roy, perhaps, but Mike had no intentions of giving Brackett another crack at him.  He shot a glance over his shoulder at Rayna; still standing before her shrine, she didn't give him any clues as to her plans for the evening. 

 

"Rayna can give me a ride home later,” he finally said, turning away from Rayna's sharp glance.  If he wanted her to, that was.

 

Roy wasn't appeased.  "And the stop at Rampart?" 

 

"Brackett had already said last night he was going to release me this morning."

 

"Probably, Mike, probably.  It wasn't for certain.  Would you at least let me come by and check you out?  It would calm Brackett down and make me feel a lot better.  Cap, too."

 

Mike closed his eyes.  This was exactly why he'd left the hospital early today, to avoid having to deal with everyone comforting him, fussing over him, trying to help him, when all he wanted to do was forget about yesterday.

 

"Roy, I'm fine."

 

Another heavy sigh from the phone.

 

"All right," Roy conceded reluctantly.  "Dr. Brackett called in a prescription for more painkillers for you, if you need them.  And I want to make sure Rayna  knows what symptoms to watch for.  She shouldn't have let you sleep all day as it was."

 

"Roy, she didn't know," Mike said firmly, pushing away the accusation in his friend's voice.  "And I'd have slept all day if I'd gone home by myself, anyway."

 

Silence again, on the line, and Mike could almost see Roy frowning.  But the blonde paramedic wasn't normally obstinate, and he could generally be reasoned with on the rare occasions when he was.  If nothing else, Mike could easily wai  him out.

 

"I'm sorry, Mike, it's just between you and Mar--it's just been a long day.  Can you at least make sure that Rayna has some phone numbers, mine and Cap's?  Just in case?"

 

Mike pulled his hand from his pocket, and rubbed at a stubborn ache in his neck. He was tired, tired of this conversation, tired of the grief, and tired of the memories that he'd been fighting all night and day.  The sound of cabinets and crockery told him Rayna had moved into the kitchen; the scents of coffee and fresh bread set his stomach to rumbling.

 

"Yeah.  I will.  And Roy, tell Cap--tell everyone I'm sorry.  I never meant to worry anybody."

 

"I know," Roy said, his voice soft.  "Sometimes it's easy to forget just how much our friends care.  And you've got a lot of good friends who care an awful lot, Mike.  Don't fight this alone."

 

Mike shifted and stood up straight, working his shoulders, holding firm against Roy's assertion.  He wasn't alone, he was with Rayna--and the last thing he wanted to think about was what his being a "good" friend might mean for Marco.

 

"Yeah, Roy.  Thanks," he said, firmly.  Roy's voice was cut off as Mike dropped the receiver into the cradle.  He wasn't going to deal with them anymore, couldn't deal with them.  Not now. 

 

Stepping over Bardolph, he retreated into the bedroom and claimed his shirt.  This time he came out even on buttons to buttonholes, proving that he was fine, no matter what Roy wanted to believe. 

 

Bread knife dangling from one hand, Rayna stood at her kitchen table, staring at the window.  Mike stepped up behind her, but saw nothing more mesmerizing than the streaming rain outside.  The two loaves of bread cooling on the rack in front of her were far more interesting to him.

 

"There's sandwich stuff in the fridge," Rayna said, offering the handle of the knife over her shoulder.  "Butter and honey here on the table."

 

"Thanks." 

 

It might have been a smile that flickered across her face as he took the knife, but it might have been a trick of the light and rain.  She'd taken her hair down and it fell forward, more than half hiding her face as she turned away from him.  Plates chinked as she took them out of the dish drainer; and he couldn't convince himself that she didn't deliberately leave the cabinet door open, blocking her face from his view as she put them away.  Dread began to coalesce in his gut, rivaling the tightness in the muscles of his back and arms. Had it just been this morning that he'd appreciated her ability not fill a silent void with words?   Maybe he should have taken Roy up on that offer of a ride home.




 

Setting the knife down, he waited until she closed the cabinet. 

 

"Rayna, about this morning.  I'm sorry--"

 

"You don't need to apologize," she said, staring at the silverware basket as if it bore some hidden message from the universe.  "I'm a grown woman and I make my own choices.  We're fine."   Selecting a single spoon, and then another, she shrugged. "I can take you home as soon as you're ready." 




 

It was definitely a smile, this time, when she glanced up at him--but it didn't help the lump in his stomach or the creeping chill.  The only thing harder than reaching out to take her arm as she stepped closer and reached for a drawer pull, was the thought of facing tonight and Marco's fate tomorrow alone.

 

"Rayna, I--"   What he meant to say was another I'm sorry, but what came out instead was, "I don't want to go home." 

 

She didn't answer, and the distance that had appeared without motion on her part lay like stone between them.  The weight of it collapsed his normal reserve, and words ran unfamiliarly from his mouth. 

 

"I only said that because Roy was going to use it as an excuse to come over here and I didn't, I couldn't..."  His voice faded.  I didn't want this place, this sanctuary, violated.  Because when I'm with you, there's no reality cold enough to say that I'm not fine and Marco's anything but whole and yesterday never has to have happened.  But he couldn't speak the words.

 

Lifeless, Mike's hand dropped from her arm, and found instead the familiar refuge of his jeans' pocket.

 

"I just don't want you to think that--this morning I didn't come here just to--" 

 

But he had, and they both knew it.  He tried again.

 

"I just... I wanted I had thought things would be different, when you and I, when we--" 

 

The font of words had dried up as quickly as it had spurted, and Mike was left with nothing but gravel and dust in his throat.  Hunching his shoulders, he stared at the tips of his Adidas, sickly, greenish-white against the ancient red and black industrial carpet beneath their feet. Silence, for a moment, and then the floorboards creaked.  He looked up as Rayna's hand came up to his face, and her eyes were soft but not molten as they had been this afternoon.

 

"You were in shock, Mike, maybe not so much physical as emotional.  You needed to ground yourself, in life, in a reality outside of death and disaster.  For whatever reason, you felt safe enough to ask that from me.  I could have refused you; I chose not to."  She paused, and though her voice was soft, stone had become solid once again.  "We're both responsible adults.  No apologies are necessary."

 

Staring into her eyes, he might have still been trapped in the wreckage with Marco, attempting to ride out the senseless destruction yet again. 

 

"Rayna, I-- damn it, this is coming out all wrong."  Shaking off her hand, he stalked into the living room.  She still stood in the kitchen when he turned around.  Desperation once again gave him words, if not strength.  “Look, I didn't come here just for sex, or for grounding, whatever the hell that means.  And it wasn't because I was in shock or anything else!  I came here because you are the one thing that's going right in my life about now." 

 

She was frowning now, stones shivering as the ground beneath them shifted. Hope choked his voice, but the words found their way out around the fear.

 

"And this morning, that's all I could get my head around: that you were here, and if I could get to you, be with you, then everything would be all right.  I would be all right."

 

Bardolph grunted and sighed, his tail pounding twice on the floor before he succumbed again to his dreams.  When Mike looked away from the dog, Rayna had taken two steps into the living room--two steps toward him and there was the faintest yielding of stone in her eyes.  But only the faintest.

 

"I wanted you, Rayna.  God, yes, I want you.  But it's more than that. I want-- I need--" 

 

He gave up on mere words and stepped forward instead, gripping her elbow, his other hand going to her waist.  She stood with him, her free hand hot against his sleeve.  When she spoke, the soft pattering of rain almost overwhelmed her voice.

 

"What you said to Roy?  About going home?"   Her fingers ran lightly over the curve of his elbow, then down his forearm until they dropped away and she leaned slightly back from him, still frowning, her eyes focused somewhere around the second or third button of his shirt.  "I thought it meant this morning that you didn't--Mike, I don't expect anyth--" 

 

"It meant I don't want to go home," he said, his hand slipping down until his fingers met hers again.  He tugged her forward, but she hesitated.   "Okay, maybe it meant that I didn't really want to deal with Roy, or Cap, and I sure as hell don't want to go back to the hospital.  But, that's it."  He touched her cheek, drawing her gaze upward, to meet his

"It didn't meant anything else, Rayna."




 

Bardolph shifted again, and the overhead lights flickered as thunder grumbled outside.  But there was no mistaking it this time, the quirk of her lips and the spark lighting her eyes definitely equated to a smile. 

 

“Well, if you think you can beat Bardolph out for his half of the bed..." 

 

She came willingly into his embrace this time; he held her body's warmth tightly against the chill that still steeped his bones.

 

"Watch me," he whispered.  "Just watch me."

 

 

 

~ E!  ~ E!  ~ E! ~ E! ~ E! ~

 

 

  "The water is wide

  we cannot get o'er,

  And neither have I

  wings to fly.

  Give me a boat

  that will carry two

  That boat shall row

  my love and I"

 

  ~~Traditional English folk song

 

 

 

 

 

Candles cast a golden glow about the room, as, propped against the headboard of Rayna's bed, Mike's hand traced a greenish-hued vein down from Rayna's shoulder and over her breast.  His fingers splayed around the nipple and aureole, then he slid his hand underneath.  Lifting it, he absorbed the fluid feel of its weight in his hand, marveling at the roundness of her, even pressed against his own flat chest. 

 

"Mmm....you have nice hands," Rayna murmured, her voice muffled against his shoulder.  She stretched, then obligingly pressed closer to him as he tightened the arm he'd wrapped around her waist as she slid off him to snuggle at his side.  His other hand swept up from her breast to her face, brushing her heavy hair aside so he could touch her cheek, before returning to rest against her breast.  The heat of her body draped across his was soporific, and Mike lay content with that warmth, content to just be with Rayna, with her remarkable curves and her eyes that saw into his heart and her own ancient soul.  Both filled and emptied, they dwelt together in that tiny eternity where there was no want or need, only the  bone-deep satisfaction found in the small moments after love made well. 

 

Moments later, he found the vein again, and his fingertips set out yet again to memorize the path it followed beneath her skin, its slender, greenish-blue track so unlike the oblong, livid bruises sprawling across his back and down his legs, more akin to the green wax dripping from the candle she'd lit before her statue last night. 

 

"What's the green candle for?"

 

"Hmm?"  She lifted her head, blinked sleepily at him.

 

"The green candle?" he asked, waiting for the light of comprehension in her eyes before pressing her head gently back down to his shoulder.

 

"For Marco," she said, her breath ghosting across his chest.  Mike shivered at that, and Rayna groped for the quilt covering their legs, pulling it over her shoulders and up onto his chest.  It took her a couple of tries to get it situated, and then he reached over and made sure it covered her as well.  She caught his hand in her own when he was done, lacing their fingers together and resting them on his chest.  "It's for healing."

 

"Oh," he said, and rather than think about Marco lying in the hospital, his crippled leg suspended with wires and wrapped bandages, Mike watched the candlelight flickering on the walls and concentrated on the feel of Rayna beneath the blankets.  He ran his free hand across her buttocks, around and up to where they dipped into the small of her back, then trailed his fingers over to her side and down along her waist where it bloomed out into the firm curve of her hip.  The closed door of her bedroom thumped and rattled as Bardolph, exiled to the living room, shifted against it.  Glancing over at the door to be sure it wasn't going to come down from the weight of the big animal, Mike's gaze fell on yet another black candle beside the bed, this one a bare remnant of glowing wick in a puddle of melted wax.  His hand stopped its exploration, resting on her waist.

 

"What are the black candles for?"

 

Rayna's head came up again, and she looked over at the candle before meeting his gaze.

 

"They absorb negative energy, negative emotions."  She held his gaze with hers for a moment, until he nodded.  Okay, whatever floated her boat.  She lay back against him then, and her hand came out to trace the line of his bicep, cupping and feeling the muscle much as he'd just done to her breast and buttocks.  "After I left him, I kept a small picture of Stacey, my soon-to-be-ex-husband, on the back of the toilet.  Seemed appropriate somehow."  He felt her smile against his skin, the soft chuff of the silent laugh that shook her beneath the covers.  "It took about three years, and a lot of black candles in the bathroom to get rid of all  those negative emotions."

 

Mike smiled and hugged her tightly, kissing the top of her head as he took a moment to be absurdly grateful to a man he'd never met.  The man had been a fool to give Rayna up, to forgo her warmth in his arms, her legs twined with his, her body draped across him.  He was grateful to Stacey for releasing her, for allowing her to be here for him, to help him through his own nightmares.

 

Then a thought struck him, and he looked down at her.  She'd lit a candle for Marco; she'd lit candles for her ex-husband. 

 

"What about me?"

 

It wasn't until she moved, looked up to meet his gaze, that he realized he'd spoken aloud.  He flushed, ashamed of his sudden jealousy, but Rayna's mouth curved even more deliciously when she smiled.  He kept his gaze on her lips, afraid of what he might see in her eyes.  When one long finger with its perfectly manicured nail tapped his uninjured cheek, Mike looked up to find her gaze on him, soft and warm as her body yielding to his.  She laid her hand against his face.

 

"Did you see the white candles on the altar, Mike?  The two big ones?"

 

Mike frowned, thinking hard.  He'd never really paid attention to the candles, or to the shrine itself.  Rayna's spiritual beliefs were not mainstream, but Sunday School had bored him as a child and he wasn't going to let some independent thought on the subject bother him.  Her candles and the shrine itself were simply part of Rayna's eccentric charm, and he'd accepted them as he'd accepted her into his life. 

 

Before he could frame a reply, Rayna chuckled and shook her head.  The air was cold against his cheek when her hand fell away.  She propped herself up on one elbow and tapped his chest.

 

"I've kept one for years.  For myself, for Trini, the rest of my family.  I lit the second one after our third date--the folk concert, right after Halloween?"  He nodded, and Rayna tapped his chest again.  "That candle, Michael Stoker, is yours, and yours alone."

 

Oh.  He didn't know what to say, then.  Except...

 

"What's a white candle for?"

 

"Purity," Rayna shot back, her eyebrows arching and her lips curving slightly.

 

After a several seconds of his dumbfounded silence, she laughed out loud, and leaned over to kiss him.  That took a minute or two, his hands coming up to cup the back of her head as he prolonged the kiss.  Then she pulled away, looked away from him as his hands fell to her shoulders, one returning to brush her hair from her face.  He reached for her hand, as she tugged the quilt a little higher on his chest.  Staring down at his hand over hers, she shrugged.

 

"White is for protection, MichaelIt never goes out; I keep that one burning all the time, for you."   She sounded apologetic, and Mike ran his hand through her hair again, then tilted her head gently back so he could see her eyes.




 

"All the time?"  He frowned when she nodded, but at the look in her eyes decided to shelve the fire safety lecture for another day.  "I'm an engineer, Rayna.  Other than dispatch, the engine is about the safest place for me to be."

 

Except when he had to leave his engine, go into the building, help with overhaul.

 

"About," she whispered, freeing her hand from his, her fingers brushing over the large, butterfly-shaped bruise spreading up from his back over his shoulder.  She looked away, but not before he saw the tears glinting in the candlelight.

 

"Rayna--"

 

"Oh, I'm all right," she said, rolling her eyes and smiling at him through her unshed tears.  She came into his arms willingly, and he cuddled her for a long, quiet moment while she ran her hand softly over his chest, this time avoiding the bruises. "I should put some more arnica on these."

 

He grabbed her as she started to get up, one arm around her shoulders, one hand gripping her arm, refusing to let her go.

 

"I'm all right," he echoed her, willing her to believe him, accept him for who and what he was--what he did.

 

"I know you are," she whispered, staring at him.  He didn't answer, and she swallowed hard.  "I promise, I won't dwell on 'might-have-beens'.  The black candles have been for me, as much as for you."  She nodded towards the table.  Then she took a deep breath.  "But I'd be lying if I said I never thought about it, especially after what happened this week."

 

This week...  Mike took a breath and looked away, unable to speak past thecloying grief in his throat.  Marco's face hovered before his, shimmering in the candlelight and his tears.  He released Rayna, putting his hand over his eyes, pressing down with his fingers, willing away the specter of his hands dragging Marco's limp body through the dust, thick blood dripping from his mangled leg down into the debris beneath them.  He choked again on the dust, the fear, the conviction that, no matter what everyone else said, he hadn't saved his friendafter all.  He'd doomed him.

 

"Mike..."  It was the third or fourth time she'd called his name, he realized, as he let himself feel the press of her hand against his face.  She grabbed the hand he dropped from his eyes, held it tightly to her chest as he met her gaze.  Her fiery hair glowing in the candlelight, she was the insistent sun against the gloom that sought to overwhelm him.

 

"You saved his life.  Whatever else happens, Marco has a fighting chance because of you." 

 

Mike blinked and looked away.

 

"Maybe," he muttered, picking at the quilt that had slid off them both when she sat up.  "But maybe he'd rather be dead than crippled.  And it's my fault.  I could feel something holding him back, when I kept trying to pull him up.  And before  he went out, he kept begging me to let him go."

 

"If you'd let go would he have lived?" 

 

He pounded a fist on the quilt, unwillingly replaying the details of his conversation with Captain Stanley two nights ago, while Marco lay in ICU with a team of doctors trying to decide what to do with the remains of his leg.  He really didn't want to answer her question, but Rayna was patient.  Sitting up, she tucked her legs beneath her, braced one arm beside him on the bed, and waited until he finally conceded.

 

"No," he said, refusing to look her in the eye.  "My holding on to him tore his leg up where the debris had trapped it."  Mike took a deep breath.  There had beenso much blood once the wreckage settled, he'd feared that Marco would bleed to death before help could get to them.  But they'd both survived, Mike by whatever twist of fate decreed that the worst of the falling debris would miss him, and Marco by Mike's sheer stubborn refusal to give in, to sacrifice his friend to the destruction around them.  "If I hadn't held on, he'd have been pulled down into the debris and crushed."

 

Still Rayna waited, but he was through with confessions.  After a moment she scooted in, closer to him, her hand coming up again to caress his cheek. 

 

"Mike, you gave him a chance.  You saved his life; whatever Marco chooses to make of it from this point, at least he will have a choice.  What he does with those choices is not your responsibility.  You can't take it on yourself, however much you want to."  Her voice was gentle, but inexorable.  He shook his head, and she let him.  But her hand stayed on his cheek, and when he finally stopped, closing his eyes against insistent memory, she spoke softly.  "I know it's hard, but think about this:  even knowing what you know now, would you make a different choice if you could?  Could you honestly let Marco die, knowing that he'd have a chance at life, even with just one leg?"

 

Mike bit his lip, hating himself for the choked up feeling in his chest, for the tears that were escaping despite his tightly clenched eyelids.  He saw again Marco's face, as the room first began to fall away beneath him.  He had reached for Mike  had lunged toward the hand that he held out.  Marco hadn't wanted to die, any more than Mike could have let him die.

 

"That's right," Rayna's quiet rejoinder came, and Mike opened his eyes, once again shocked that he'd spoken aloud.  Rayna's voice went on, cutting through his shock--and his guilt.  "Marco didn't want to die, and you wouldn't let him.  You did everything in your power to honor his wish.  It wasn't your fault the debris caught him that way; it wasn't anybody's fault.  It just happened, and now he has to live with the consequences.  So do you.  But at least he gets to live with them."  She paused, then almost whispered, "Which is more than he'd be able to do if you hadn't held on to him."

 

Rayna studied his face, waiting for him to reply.  Mike rubbed at his eyes, swallowed the grief one more time.

 

"How'd you get to know so much?" he grumbled, through the tears and tightness in his throat.  Rayna's answering smile was ancient, and weary. 

 

"Oh, a lifetime here and there," she said, and he pulled her in and held her close.

 

Later he helped her blow out the candles scattered about her room, stopping to heft one small white one in his hand.  Catching her gaze upon him, he smiled sheepishly.

 

"Maybe tomorrow you can put another of those big white candles out there, for the other guys on the shift?"  Would she light another candle for him?  Set another lighted prayer in front of the statue that reminded him of Rayna, with her huge heart and her easy grace and the generous way she gave of herself, pulling him back from the brink of the abyss that threatened to consume his soul?

 

Her smile was soft as she took the candle from him, setting it down with its fellows on the windowsill.  She came into his embrace willingly, held him in the darkness as tightly as he held her.

 

"I can do that," she said, and in the faint light from the streetlight outside he saw Rayna's eyes close as she lifted her face to him.  Mike's lips met hers and, pulling her close once more, he gave himself up to his own form of worship.

 

 

~ E! ~ E! ~ E! ~ E! ~ E! ~

 

 

One or two things are all you need

to travel over the blue pond, over the deep

roughage of the trees and through the stiff

flowers of lightning  some deep

memory of pleasure, some

cutting knowledge of pain.

            ~Mary Oliver

 

 

 

 

 

Rayna knelt on the threadbare carpet and blew out the candles, one by one.  One hand in his pocket, Mike leaned a shoulder against the wall behind her, waiting as she carefully pinched each wick dead.  Each candle was then carefully wrapped in a scrap of cloth or paper and laid precisely in the basket at her side, amidst the shells and rocks already neatly packed.  The smaller candles went first, as she slowly cleared the tiled shrine he'd found at a Japanese garden store.  She'd objected at first to replacing her wooden table shrine; she didn't like the elaborate Oriental carving around the edges of this one.  But Mike had prevailed upon her to use it, if only for his peace of mind.  The thought of all  those candles, perpetually burning on a rickety wooden table, still left him slightly ill.

 

Rayna reached for the first of the three large white candles, following the same procedure of blowing it out and pinching the wick, then wrapping it carefully as she laid it atop the nearly full basket.  Mike's gaze followed the smooth motion of her arm back up the shrine as she reached for the next white candle.  Then all that was left was one deep green candle, burning brightly in front of the rotund statuette.  Mike shifted his weight and smiled as Rayna reached for that one.  That rich green color would be forever tied to his memories of Rayna's body, of the first times they had come together in the midst of his guilt and grief over Marco and his leg.  She'd lit the green candle that first night he'd spent with her, when he was too afraid to go home and face his demons by himself.  Not objecting to either his presence or his need, Rayna had simply given, of her home, her time, and herself.

 

And with her help, over the last few months, Mike had found his balance, and his way through to the other side of the storm within himself.

 

The green candle disappeared into the basket, and now Rayna reached for the statue.  She'd explained its significance to Mike once or twice, but he'd promptly forgotten all but the statue's name: Inanna, Queen of Heaven.  Inanna was wrapped in a silky blue cloth, and Rayna laid her reverently on top of the full basket, carefully folding one corner of the silk back so the statue's face was visible.  Looking up and catching Mike's gaze on her, Rayna blushed.  She opened her mouth, but it took a second for anything to come out.

 

"She...she likes to see where she's going," Rayna finally said, refusing to meet his gaze.

 

Mike didn't fight his smile; it was so rarely that he saw Rayna flustered and at a loss for words.  She glared at him as she stood, lifting the basket, and Mike reached for her, laughing openly.  Rayna leaned away, dragging her feet as he pulled her to him, but she was laughing when he finally got her close enough to get both his arms around her. 

 

"It's a bit late to be playing hard to get," he growled, bending down to kiss her. Her reply was lost beneath his lips on hers.  After a second, her free arm went around him, and the last thing he saw was her eyes closing as she leaned into him.

 

"Somebody better go tell Marco it's gonna be a while yet." 

 

Without releasing Rayna, Mike opened one eye and glared at Gage.  His friend leaned, smirking, against the kitchen counter.  Johnny's grin just grew as Mike lifted his head and scowled, and then Chet stepped up behind him, grinning as well.  Both men looked tired, the t-shirts they wore as sweaty as Mike's own.  May had been warmer than normal this year, and the day they'd chosen to move Rayna out of her apartment the hottest so far.

 

"Hey, if Mike's giving lessons, I want in."  Chet rubbed a hand across his forehead, and then wiped it on his baggy Bermuda shorts.

 

"You want Mike to kiss you, Chet?" Johnny replied, turning to the stocky firefighter beside him.  "I don't know if Mike's gonna go for that."

 

"Yeah, Gage, that's what I want.  No, you idiot, that's not what I meant--" Chet started, but Johnny interrupted him.

 

"It's what you said, Chet.  What else could you mean?"  Johnny crossed his arms and smirked at Chet this time.  Chet's mouth was opening and closing, as he fumbled for words.

 

"You just wait, Gage, the Phantom will have his revenge, that I guarantee."  He poked Johnny's chest with a finger. 

 

Mike rolled his eyes at the familiar by-play.  Rayna was shaking in his arms, and when he looked at her, she burst out laughing.  Bardolph, his leash dragging and tail wagging, came around the men and headed for them.  He snuffed at Mike's leg, and Mike jerked his leg away.

 

"Whatsamatter, Mikey, don't like doggy kisses?" Chet taunted, and Mike shook his head.  Maybe they should have hired a moving company.  He let go of Rayna, and she stepped back, out into the living room.  She made a slow circle, as if saying goodbye to the empty apartment.  Mike turned away, giving her privacy for her farewells.  He waved Johnny and Chet forward.

 

"Come on, guys, this is the last piece."  He stepped up and pulled the base of the shrine out, away from the wall.

 

"Yeah, then we get to unload it all at your house."  Hanging back, Chet rubbed a hand across his face again.  "I tell you, Stoker, I must have had a serious case of smoke inhalation to let you talk me into this much work on my day off."

 

"Chet, all he had to do was offer you free pizza and beer and you'd have rolled over and played dead in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard," Johnny said, moving forward to help Mike shift the heavy tile basin.

 

"I'm going downstairs, okay?"  Rayna rested a hand briefly on his back, and Mike nodded, as he and Johnny carefully scooted the shrine out away from the wall. Mike generously decided to ignore the way Chet's gaze followed Rayna's retreating figure, Bardolph trailing behind her.  Turning back to watch Mike and Johnny as they groped for handholds on the shrine, Chet grinned.

 

"Well, if it would get me a girl like Mike got, I'd do it.  Hey, did she really turn you down, Mike?  Even with the ring and all?"

 

"I 'got' Rayna by apologizing for you," Mike said, as he verified Johnny's readiness with a glance, and they lifted the shrine between them.  "And yeah, she did.  This time." 

 

"Yeah, well, it doesn't look to me like it was much of a rejection."  Johnny said,  grinning, and Mike felt the heat rising in his face.

 

"Hey, I'd take a rejection like this any day.  All of the benefits, none of the paperwork."  Chet stepped forward, catching the wooden base as it tried to follow the shrine.  "And what do you mean, you 'apologized for me', Mike?"

 

Mike ignored Chet, following Johnny as he carefully backed towards the stairs.  He could hear Rayna laughingly reassure Marco that his hours as a doorstop were over, at least until they got over to Mike's house to unload.  Mike and Johnny slowly maneuvered their burden down the steep steps, past the door Marco held open with one crutch, and then along the narrow sidewalk and out to Johnny's Land Rover, Chet at their heels the entire way.  Marco lingered behind them, talking to Rayna as she closed up the apartment for the last time. 

 

It took both men to get the heavy shrine loaded into the back of Johnny's Land Rover.  Once they got it situated amongst the boxes already stacked on the mattress Johnny kept there, Mike stepped back and Chet leaned in, he and  Johnny pushing the base into the last available space.  Rayna joined them, and Mike took the surprisingly heavy basket from her and handed it to Johnny as well.  The paramedic shifted a few boxes, then set the basket carefully in the small space he'd created.

 

"It should ride easy enough there," he said, looking around for Rayna's approval before he stepped back and began to close up the Rover.

 

"I have to go turn the keys in," Rayna said, and Mike nodded as she headed for the ceramic shop.  With Johnny and Chet's help, it was only going to take one trip to get Rayna's stuff over to his house.  Fitting it into his house would be another task entirely.  But Mike had had to work hard to persuade Rayna to move in with him after she turned down his marriage proposal; he wasn't about to quibble over what she brought with her.  He could get rid of some of his stuff if he had to.  It might have taken him until he was approaching middle-age, but he'd finally figured out that home was more than "stuff." 

 

Then again, it might simply have taken until he met Rayna.

 

"You know, there are some good aspects to being on these things," Marco said, leaning on his crutches on the sidewalk.  He held Bardolph's leash in one hand;the dog sat next to Marco's heavily braced right leg, panting as if he'd done more than just run up and down the stairs while they loaded up the furniture and boxes.  "I have to admit, it's kind of nice to just watch all you guys work." 




 

"Yeah, well, you know what they say, Marco.  'He who does not work does not eat'." Johnny laughed, following Mike over to his truck.  They tugged on the ropes and pushed on the bookshelves and other furniture, but the load was secure. 

 

"Hey, I worked; I made a great doorstop."

 

"And a dog holder," Chet added, "don't forget to put that on your resume, too, Marco."

 

From the silence after that statement, Marco must have cut Chet down to size with a glare.  Johnny and Mike exchanged grins, then Johnny slapped the side of Mike's truck.

 

"Guess we'll meet you at your place then," he said, and Mike nodded.  Johnny headed for his truck, waving at Marco. "C'mon, Marco, I'll give you a ride this time.  I'm sure you could use a break from riding in Chet's 'love machine'."

 

Marco's teeth flashed beneath his moustache.

 

"You're on, Johnny.  I just hope you're a better driver than Chester B."  He held Bardolph's leash out, and Mike stepped over and took it, leading the dog back over to his truck and opening the door to push him up into the cab.

 

"Why not?  I'm a better lover."  Johnny said, and Marco laughed.  Closing the door to keep Bardolph in the truck, Mike smiled too; it was good to hear Marco laugh again.

 

"Oh, yeah, right, in your dreams, Gage!" Chet said, looking decidedly put out when his protest simply led to more laughter on the part of Johnny and Marco.  Bracing one hand on his hip, Chet pointed at Johnny.  "I'd be careful, Marco," he called out.  "There are reasons Roy doesn't let him drive the squad, you know."

 

"that may be, Chet, but if Johnny wrecks with that stuff of Rayna's in there, he's dead and he knows it," Mike said, watching Johnny help Marco into the front seat of the Rover.  Mike leaned back against his truck and shook his head as the Irishman joined him.  Chet's van was across the street, loaded down with boxes of Rayna's books and dishes and other household goods.   They watched as the Land Rover drove away. When Mike turned, Chet was staring pathetically up at him.




 

"Mike, what do you mean, you got Rayna by apologizing for me?"  The question was quiet, and Chet looked almost worried enough that Mike took pity on him-- almost.  Instead, he smiled at Rayna as she came out of the ceramic shop.  He knew Chet was ogling her as she loped down the stairs and jogged over to join them, but he was enjoying the view himself.  Mike opened the truck door, holding his hand out to help Rayna up into the seat.

 

"I'll explain it when you're older, Chet," he said, closing the door after her.  He ignored Chet's open-mouthed confusion as he headed around to the driver's side of the Chevy.  Digging his keys out of his pocket, he called, "Better hurry, don't want Johnny and Marco to eat all the pizza before you get there.  Then I might have to make you roll over and play dead in the middle of the street before I order some more."

 

"Stoker, did anyone ever tell you that you're--"

 

Mike slammed the door on whatever Chet had been about to say.  Putting the key in the ignition and starting up the truck, he smiled over Bardolph at Rayna. "Ready?" he asked. 

 

She sighed and closed her eyes, then twisted to look over at the house.  Mike waited, his hands clenched around the steering wheel.  Bardolph's tags chinked as the big dog's head swiveled between the two of them. 

 

It was amazing what you could live without, until there was a chance it might walk away.

 

Then Rayna shook her head, her entire body shivering.  She swung around, squared her shoulders, and smiled at him.

 

"Yes," she said, taking a deep breath, reaching up with one hand to pat Bardolph.  "I think I am."

 

"It's going to be all right," he said.  "You'll see."




 

She smiled again and nodded.  Mike shifted the Chevy into gear and checked traffic.  Hitting the blinker, he pulled out into the street and headed home.

 

 

  ~*Finit*~


End file.
